The Last Mudblood
by ideefixe77
Summary: No one's entitled to power, there are only those that are willing to take it.  For there is no good or evil, there is only Power, and I, Hermione Granger, intend to take it. I will make the Dark Lord Voldemort fear me and I will take his power for my own.
1. Prologue

Lord Voldemort feared Albus Dumbledore, everyone knew it, banked on it, prayed that it gave the Dark Lord pause enough to perhaps not lay siege to the entirety of wizarding England. However, it is far more appropriate to say that Tom Riddle feared Albus Dumbledore. For it isn't so difficult to instill fear in a child that will stay with them into adulthood. Fear is insidious, it burrows deep in the soul until it is irrational, until it usurps control of that very soul. And Albus Dumbledore sought nothing more than to control Tom Riddle, and fear was his weapon.

Fear is power. And power is fear. Few understood that. Voldemort is one of those. Dumbledore another. And, perhaps the most surprising of all, I understand the very nature of power. For you see, I understand that no one is entitled to power, there are only those that are willingly to take it. For there is no good or evil, light or dark, heaven or hell, mudblood or pureblood, there is only Power, and I, Hermione Granger, intend to take it by any means necessary. I will make the Dark Lord Voldemort fear me, and I will take the power he has stolen for my own.


	2. Chapter 1

Harry Potter died huddled over the corpse of Ronald Weasley, in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. The Order of the Phoenix fell. The war was lost.

Filthy fucking Mudblood. Vile. Contaminant of the pure. Foul. Unworthy of the very air she breathes, the water it would take to sustain her. Repulsive.

He gave Hermione Granger to Bellatrix Lestrange. He laughed and stroked her face with one finger as he gave her to a new Mistress. He called Hermione the first of the slaves of his empire. Crimson eyes looked into caramel and his lips brushed the shell of her ear as he whispered that she would be the most important, the most revered in the same breath that he told her that she would be worth nothing more than the spittle it would take to clean his shoe.

She didn't understand.

One week after the death of the life she knew, Hermione lay crumpled in the moonlit dirt, bloodied and filthy. Her mind was clouded with grief and pain from a week of death, torture and starvation. It took far longer than it should have for her to understand where she lay. A theatre in the round, constructed from magic and filled with those she called her friends and family, her allies and compatriots. Thousands of wandless wizards and witches rounded up from safe houses, children stolen from their schools, magical families ordered to come from all across England. Dirty and broken faces watched as Bellatrix Lestrange circled above Harry Potter's best friend.

"Good people of Briton, our Lord is merciful!" Her voice rang ominously through the air, silencing her audience. "He is kind and generous to those whom he favors. We are blessed that he has chosen us as his people."

Murmurs broke out, creating a dull roar, as the crowd sat shocked by Bellatrix's words. Lord Voldemort was the most feared Wizard ever to be born into the magical world, he was not generally thought of as kind.

"Silence!" Shrieks went up from the crowd as they once again cowered in fear.

"We are blessed, and we are fortunate, and we are righteous. For the world we have lived in has been covered in filth, it has been contaminated. Impure blood runs rampant, destroying all that we hold dear. It is despicable. It is shameful." From her position below Bellatrix, Hermione heard and felt the shame pouring off the world she so loved. The world that she, Mudblood that she was, cherished. Tears poured down her battered face and fell to the earth below, making mud of the dirt. For the first time in her life she truly felt vile, as if she was something to be ashamed of. What was this magic that could so easily sway people from what they once held so dear? For no doubt magic was being spun. Something truly dark. With a few words the tide had turned. Purebloods, half-bloods and muggleborns alike were sympathizing with death eaters, with Lord Voldemort, with a man that would just as easily see their bodies adorning a mass grave as walking from this stadium.

"But do not fear, the Dark Lord does not hold you to blame. He understands that magic is a gift that must be cherished in all its forms. He has generously agreed to forgive your sins against what is right, your grievous disloyalty to the correct cause." Bellatrix held the audience of the wizarding world in her grasp. She was charismatic, fanatical and entrancing. Those characteristics that made you question her sanity when confronted up close were the same that made her impossible to look away from. She was eerily beautiful and absolutely terrifying.

Suddenly her voice became soft, Hermione knew this was it, this was where Bellatrix Lestrange, the voice of Lord Voldemort, struck. This was the point of this farce where she truly lost. "The Dark Lord has found a way to purge you of your impure blood. Lord Voldemort is our savior, if you should only desire to be saved!"

Looking up from her place upon the ground, Hermione looked at those around her. She saw far too many eager faces. Three rows up half-blooded Dean Thomas was nodding gravely to everything Bellatrix said and next to him Lavender Brown seemed nearly giddy in her excitement. In that moment her heart broke. She sobbed as everything she was proud of, everything that made her the woman she was was destroyed and despised.

"Lord Voldemort will forgive you! He will purify you and our world! But you must earn your reprieve!" Bellatrix looked positively deadly as she spoke nearly in a whisper that seemed to carry purely due to the vehemence in her voice. "You are all at fault. And you must prove your loyalty."

With this Death Eaters entered from the aisles. Masks like death and black robes floating strangely behind them. Marching to surround the edges of the stage. Bellatrix looked down at the Mudblood, drawing the eyes of thousands as she crouched, her finger swiping the girl's cheek and drawing it to her mouth to taste her tears, taste her sorrow. Hermione swore she heard a guttural moan in that moment. Suddenly, Bellatrix stood again, dragging Hermione up by the roots of her hair.

"Hermione Granger cowers at our feet. She is what is wrong with our world. Mudblood! Despicable! Vile! Disgusting! She dared to stand against our Lord. She will be punished and through her pain we shall all be cleansed."

Terror thrummed through Hermione's veins, igniting all of her nerves to any and all stimulation. Her head was clear for the first time in a week. She was going to die, she knew it.

"Be warned, my friends, this is what happens to those who do not stand with our Dark Lord."

Bellatrix threw the girl into the waiting arms of the cloaked Deatheaters. Hermione could feel their hot breath scorch the skin of her neck, and their fingers crawling on the skin of her arms and hips. Bellatrix pulled from her belt a silver dagger and brandished it towards her audience. It was ornate with Celtic knots adorning the handle and runes along the blade. It looked viciously sharp.

Stepping towards Hermione she sliced through her clothing until she was completely naked, her body bared for a huge portion of wizarding England. Hermione was guided back to the ground were she was forced to lie prostrate, her wrists and ankles held down. She violently shook and a cold sweat broke out all over her body. Complete and utter panic. She wished for death over and over again, just to spare herself from the horror that she knew was coming.

Screams of fright fell through the crowd as Lord Voldemort himself appeared from nothing but black smoke and was presented with the blade. Without preamble he knelt down and Hermione felt the blade slice into her abdomen. Searing pain firing into her brain and causing an unholy scream to leave her throat and echo throughout the stadium. She felt like she was being flayed alive. Time stopped and left nothing in its wake other than complete and utter agony. Hermione had been withstanding the cruciatus curse daily for the last week, nearly hourly, but this was the first time she realized that the cruciatus is but a mere illusion. It is not true pain, this was pain, this was real. Her body was being rent apart.

Through her misery, Hermione tasted the bitter tang of a blood replenishing potion being forced down her throat along with another potion that she could not recognize through her pained haze.

Lord Voldemort began to chant. He spoke in a dead language and with each word his voice gained volume. Every muscle in Hermione's body tightened to an unbearable degree. Suddenly she felt the blade withdraw but immediately fingers were in its place, a place fingers should never be. The Dark Lord's hand played in her organs as his voice lowered to a murmur, playing with her pain like a master plays a violin. Long notes of absolute agony with each movement of his fingers and word he spoke.

Bellatrix's hypnotic voice spoke again, as the masses were entranced by the ritual occurring before them. "The Dark Lord is kind, he is generous. If you accept him as your master he will take the blame placed fairly on your shoulders and only this one Mudblood shall suffer. Through her you are no longer at fault, he shall take your shame and make it hers alone. Join us and we will take our rightful place as the superior beings of this word. With your loyalty and allegiance, to the Dark Lord, all shall be put to right again."

Runes were being carved into the underside of Hermione's skin by the Dark Lord's probing fingers and etched onto the bones of her ribcage and spine. Runes that spoke of loss of freedom, sorrow, torment. Runes that spoke of the last of her kind. For she truly understood then. There was something different about witches and wizards born of a muggle heritage. Some quality that separated us from the purebloods. She felt it. Here hovering inside all of the wizards and witches, she was practically humming with it. And the Dark Lord was extracting that quality from the muggle-born and half-blood witches and wizards in the stadium. He was even extracting the impurity from himself.

In that moment, as tears seeped from her eyes, she truly understood. Voldemort was a master. He wielded power like it was nothing. There was no dark magic binding these people to him, he was using fear and pride so they bound themselves. He understood that in order to reign he needed subjects. Less than 10% of wizarding Briton claim to have pureblood, and less still are actually pure. That is a rather minuscule empire. Lord Voldemort was using the fear, shame and prejudice that had been instilled within every witch and wizard to insure that he had as many followers as possible. And at the same time he was removing what he deemed to be their fatal flaw: their muggle blood. He was a genius, a terrible, terrible genius. For when the last muggleborn conceded their loyalty to him and that still unknown muggleborn quality was transferred to her she would be exterminated and in doing so Lord Voldemort will have succeeded in destroying all Mudbloods. A perfect genocide with only one death.

As the Mudblood's pain and the Dark Lord's chanting came to a haunting crescendo a blue light enveloped nearly everyone who had decided to change loyalties and join the Dark Lord. The light suffused their bodies and stole that indefinable quality and left an overwhelming sense of loss behind. The light gathered over the nearly unconscious Mudblood, still being tortured with Voldemort's fingers buried deep in her body.

With a maddened laugh the Dark Lord wrenched his hand from her body. The light nearly blinded everyone present as it seeped into the tortured witch's flesh, knitting her skin back together and repairing her organs. As another unearthly scream was wrenched from her throat her eyes widened and the Dark Lord saw that her previously honeyed eyes had taken on the glowing blue quality of the light before the witch collapsed unconscious on the ground.

Lord Voldemort turned to his new followers, a frightening smile enhanced the scull like quality of his face. "Those of you who have determined to join me have been pardoned. Welcome, my children. Hermione Granger will be the last Mudblood. I have purified you. Together we shall create a world truly worthy of our kind." The Dark Lord's eyes hardened and he addressed the minority who refused to join his cause. "As for the rest, I am a lenient Lord, you have one years time to join me. You shall return here on the full moon of every month and we shall again welcome those who wish into my fold. You will be purified and you will join a noble world. Those who do not attend, or those who fail to join me after time has elapsed shall be hunted down and slaughtered."

Lord Voldemort glanced down at the unconscious Mudblood girl at his feet, and his disgustingly bloodied hands. Filth.

"We must take our rightful place, and we will allow no one to jeopardize that."


	3. Chapter 2

Hermione woke to the feeling of warm sudsy water tracing rivulets down her sides and a soft porous sponge sweeping up her spine to the nape of her neck. The sponge was silky against her skin as it gently scrubbed a weeks worth of blood and grime from her body. She lay prone with her eyes still closed, allowing herself a moment to revel in the first tiny allowance of pleasure that the cleansing massage offered. She couldn't even bring herself to be embarrassed over her nudity, she was so deprived of comfort.

The sponge trailed over the gentle curve of her ass, allowing water to seep between her cheeks. Calloused fingers followed the sponge, taking liberties she had not granted, but before she could open her eyes and demand the perpetrator stop, the fingers were gone. Hermione heard the sponge being wrung out and dipped in a basin of water. She felt it return to her body, slowly traveling down the length of her legs, diligently scrubbing away the film of filth coating her skin, and raising goose bumps as the cool air hit her damp flesh. The sensation caused a soft sighing moan to bubble up her throat and the sponge paused on her calf before resuming its path.

God, how could she find pleasure at all in this vile place? After all the horror that had happened in the last week? Was she truly that depraved? Or was she just so deprived of any positive sensation, anything other than sorrow, grief and fear? Deep wracking sobs escaped her as tears streamed down her face. Her body shook violently and the sponge was finally removed. She cried for Harry, who was so brave even in his death. She cried for Ron, and the love that was now lost forever between them. She cried for all the lost Order members her captors so viciously told her were killed when Voldemort raided headquarters. She cried for all the witches and wizards that, last night, agreed to join a madman and lost any portion of themselves, even if they didn't realize it. And she finally cried for herself: for all her seemingly endless pain, for her loneliness and for her lost future. Everything she had dreamed since she turned eleven was gone. The life ahead of her promised to be bleak, miserable, terrifyingly short.

Time seemed suspended as she purged herself through her tears. Her body ached from the heaving sobs and her eyes felt swollen shut. When finally she felt too exhausted to even cry anymore her moans quieted, her body slowly relaxed and she drifted in and out of a sleep state.

Dreamily, Hermione again felt the sponge resume cleaning the soles of her feet, tickling her gently, before the plopping sound of the something being placed in water. A large hand curled around her ribcage and another on her shoulder, gently twisting her so she lay on her back. Starting again at her feet, the sponge slowly trailed up her body again, lingering to scrub away the dirt from so frequently being forced to her knees. The silky wetness dragged up her thighs and over the dark, curly thatch of hair above her pussy. It caressed her hips and belly, causing warm water to pool in her belly button. The feeling was sensual and acutely erotic.

As the sponge traced along each of her ribs, Hermione pulled herself back into consciousness. She slowly blinked her still blurry eyes. The image that came into focus stunned Hermione. Shaggy platinum blond hair framed high cheek bones and stone grey eyes. Those eyes were intently focused, as Draco Malfoy moved a sea sponge up her sternum to brush against her clavicle. He was so focused on his task that he had yet to notice Hermione watching him.

Draco's eyes were bright as he moved the sponge ever so lightly to brush over the mound of her breast. He gently squeezed the sea sponge; water cascaded in streamlets down her flesh. He seemed ineluctably mesmerized as the moisture further soaked the sheet beneath her. With an achingly slow sweep he lightly brushed just the tip of her breast, causing the nipple to tighten almost painfully and a gasp to escape her lips.

Draco's gaze swiftly rose to meet hers, and the openness on his face surprised her. There was no shame or disdain, he simply seemed curious and perhaps a bit pained. Those expressions, however, quickly morphed into surprise as he stared intently into her eyes. Nearly a minute passed as Draco's stare demanded Hermione's attention and his eyes searched hers. Hermione became keenly aware of her nudity and who was sitting on the narrow bed next to her, as well as the fact that his hand still held the sponge to her breast.

Draco released the sponge from his hand, letting it tumble to the bed forgotten. In a painfully slow motion he reached his fingers towards Hermione's face, gently skimming his fingertips along the fragile skin beneath her eye, grazing her lower lashes. Hermione couldn't breathe, the motion was so intimate, so incredibly poignant and she could never once remember a time when something so simple had unsettled her so completely.

Why was Draco Malfoy caressing her face? Why was she letting him touch her at all? He was a Death Eater. He was everything she was fighting against. He stood for those who tortured her, who sought to eliminate her. With a shuddered breath Hermione shoved his hand away and scrambled back against the wall. Bringing her knees to her chest to shield as much of her body as she could.

With a familiar sneer Draco rose from the bed and went to sit on a spindly wooden chair situated in the corner; he rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands.

Hermione took the opportunity to study him. He looked different. His hair was messy and longer than she had ever seen it before; it hung in his eyes and nearly to his shoulders. He looked older- but that was hardly surprising- war aged even the young. He wore worn brown trousers and a thin white button up shirt, neither looked particularly expensive, and they were muggle. In fact, Hermione would probably have encouraged Ron or Harry to throw them out if they were the ones wearing them. Malfoy was barefoot and looked hardly cleaner than she did before her sponge bath. Pushing aside her curiosity at Malfoy's state and assured that he was far enough away to give her warning if he intended to touch her again, Hermione took notice of her surroundings. She lay on a narrow bed covered in threadbare sheets and a hole-filled blanket that had seen far better days. Swiftly, she wrapped the blanket around herself and continued assessing her surroundings. The walls, ceiling and floor were made of grey stone, nothing adorned them. There were no windows. The room was large enough to feel the emptiness with only a wooden chair and small bed. On one wall was a thick wooden door and a heavy wrought iron handle that must lead out of the room. On the opposite was another portal that she guessed led to a bathroom. She guessed she was back in the vast castle she had been brought to after Voldemort's victory.

Wrapping the blanket more tightly around her, Hermione rose from the bed, ignoring her protesting body, and inched along the wall towards the door closest to her. She reached the handle and tugged it open. She was right, inside was a bathroom that held only an old fashioned pull toilet, basin and cracked mirror. There was no lock. Keeping her back pressed tightly to the wall she continued moving along it until she reached the heavy wooden door. She kept her eyes on Malfoy as she tried to pull it open. It wouldn't budge, and Malfoy hadn't even deigned to glance at her again.

Hermione could feel herself begin to panic: her heart was beating wildly and she felt like she couldn't gulp down enough oxygen. She needed out. She needed out, now. Desperately, she wrenched the handle of the unmoving door one more time before sprinting towards the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Hermione found herself trembling as she slid to the ground and gripped her hair tightly. Cor, how had she come to this? Trapped in a room, naked, with a Death Eater who would more than likely rape her and then toss her used body aside. Merlin, her heart was beating out of her chest and she was sure she was hyperventilating now. How had her life come to this? She was a good person: she always got good marks, she was kind and compassionate, she always brushed and flossed her teeth. Yet she had been tortured mercilessly. Her hands felt numb. Nearly everyone she loved was dead and buried, or more likely their bodies desecrated. She felt like sweat was pouring down her face. She had been forced to endure complete and utter agony, in the name of a perverse ritual in which nearly the majority of wizarding England betrayed their very selves. Oh God, she felt so weak. She fell sideways and pressed her cheek against the cool stone floor and closed her eyes tightly.

Hermione slowed her breath and focused. Inhale: one, two, three, four, five. Exhale: one, two, three, four, five. Repeat. Slowly she began to feel her fingers and her heart beat slowed. When she finally felt she had control of her body once again she pushed herself back into a seated position.

With a deep breath, she stood to splash water on her face from the basin. The cool water felt good on her overheated skin. Looking up into the mirror she stumbled backwards until her back yet again hit the door. Hermione was staring at a reflection that couldn't possibly be her own. Her eyes were practically glowing blue, the blue blue of shallow Caribbean waters. No wonder Malfoy was staring into her eyes. Yet that wasn't the only change. Her hair seemed silky and fell in soft ringlets to the small of her back, highlights of gold and auburn glinted in the torchlight. Her skin was creamy and smooth. Her breasts weren't particularly large but they were firm and perky. Her waist was slender and hips voluptuous, curving sensuously. She was reminded of the painted woman in Alexandre Cabanel's 'Birth of Venus.' Hermione always felt she possessed a resemblance to the French painting, but now her reflection was uncannily similar. The body of the reflection was built for hedonism. It was erotic, carnal and organically beautiful. There was nothing contrived about the beauty in the reflection, it screamed of vitality; a beauty found in new spring growth. It was Hermione's reflection but it was more. She was enhanced but not changed, she seemed to have blossomed into a woman overnight, completely coming into her looks. Despite her youth no one would be able to call her a child any longer. She was most assuredly a woman, now.

While her newly matured figure and glowing eyes were incredibly disconcerting, she was more stunned to find that she had been marked. Faint, white, whorled tattoos in intricate spirals and swirls curled across her shoulders and collar bone, they swept down her ribcage, decorated her breasts and cradled her hips. She turned and followed the ink as she saw the design traveled all the way from her tail bone to the nape of her neck, branching outwards from her spine. It was beautiful, vast and delicate. She looked like a painted goddess.

Stepping closer to the mirror, Hermione realized that the spirals were made up of tiny runes. Amongst the circling chaos she could make out a few of the letters. The runes Mannaz and Uruz heavily populated the tattoos around her hips while she especially noticed Gebo and Hagalaz adorning her ribcage and back. Those runes together were a heady combination, and Hermione was confident that the pattern in which they were drawn upon her body was significant. Yet the design was just too intricate for her to have any notion of what they meant and why they now seemed to be permanently inked to her skin. Hermione was almost positive that all of these physical changes were due to the ritual she was forced to participate in last night. She remembered Lord Voldemort invoking the runes as he torturously traced them inside her body. Playing with magic like that was sure to have dire consequences, she felt lucky that the changes didn't seem to actually be particularly negative or debilitating.

Deciding that she had more important things to worry about than a change in her physical appearance, Hermione proceeded to rinse away the dried blood still splattered on her temple and streaked through her hair, before curling herself into the corner facing and praying the door would never open again.

Hermione was startled out of a fitful sleep when the bathroom door creaked open. Bellatrix looked ominous as she stood in the entrance, with her wild hair snaking outward, eerily backlit by the torch in the other room..

"Morning, Mudblood. I see you are still alive."

Stealing her voice so it wouldn't shake, Hermione responded. "It's going to take more than that little ritual for you people to kill me."

Bellatrix canted her head and in a simpering voice she said. "Pity."

With a few short strides, Bellatrix grabbed Hermione by the hair and yet again hauled her up by the roots. "The Dark Lord wishes to see you, Girl." Throwing her against the wall where her head cracked hard against the stone. "My Lord so generously rewarded me with you, but I find that I do not have a need for another slave acting as my shadow, especially one that makes my skin crawl with her filth." Bellatrix shuddered melodramatically and Hermione had to resist rolling her eyes. "As such, today the Dark Lord has requested your presence in the thrown room."

"I assure you, Girl, if you should do anything I do not approve of you _will_ be put under the Cruciatus until you are a hairsbreadth from losing your mind. And trust me, your sanity is hardly required for what the Dark Lord has planned for you."

Hermione wasn't a fool. She knew that it would be virtually impossible to escape without a wand, in a castle crawling with Death Eaters, and Lord Voldemort himself. That hadn't stopped her from trying though. In the past week she had managed to make a run for it a couple of times. Once, even elbowing a particularly ugly minion in the nose and making it all the way to the outer wards surrounding the castle. But she swiftly realized that at least one of those wards was designed to keep her in, as she was stopped by an invisible force every time she tried to move forward. The Death Eaters had been toying with her, using her for their entertainment and hunting her down across the grounds like an animal. They would practice particularly nasty dark curses on her whenever they drew close. She stopped trying to escape after that last attempt.

Bellatrix dragged Hermione from the bathroom back into the large room. Malfoy now stood in the corner but didn't raise his head. Why was he just standing there. Shouldn't he be helping his Aunt torment her?

"Remove that flea infested rag you are wearing, I am sure Draco wants his blanket back." Bellatrix laughed uproariously as she said this and Malfoy clenched his fists but didn't say anything.

His blanket? The Malfoy that Hermione knew wouldn't let anything this disgusting touch his perfect skin.

Seeing the look of confusion on Hermione's face, Bellatrix laughed. "Did he not inform you, little Mudblood? Dear Draco has been stripped of his mark and his wand. He is not worthy of such an honor. Isn't that right, darling Nephew? You act like trash, you will be treated as such."

Malfoy remained silent and Bellatrix sneered. Slashing her wand, Malfoy fell to his knees, hard. Bellatrix gripped his chin and forced him to look at her. "You should know better than to fail in a task the Dark Lord set you. Yet you have done so repeatedly. And even then you have the audacity to ask My Lord for a favor." Bellatrix spat into his face and shoved him away. "Despicable."

Bellatrix had an evil glint in her eye as she informed them, "You two will be sharing quarters so as not to contaminate anyone. Now lose the blanket, Mudblood."

"No." Hermione didn't want to feel any more vulnerable than she already did, and standing before Draco Malfoy without clothes yet again, was sure to do that. Even if he had already seen her and was out of favor with the Dark Lord.

"I said strip!" The pain came, swiftly following those words. Hermione's every nerve ending was on fire, and she felt like every bone in her body was splintering, but she refused to scream. The only outward indication that the curse was even effective was that she had fallen to the floor and tears were pouring from her eyes. It was nearly unbearable. Finally, the pain relented and Hermione lay gasping on the ground, the blanket forgotten.

"Now that that has been achieved, the Dark Lord has seen fit to clothe you." With another swish of her wand, Bellatrix threw a dress over the crumpled form of the girl.

Clutching the clothing to her, Hermione swiftly drew the gown over her head. The material was white and gauzy, it had narrow straps and it cinched tight beneath her breasts, supporting them slightly, and fell to her knees. It looked almost Grecian. It took only a moment for her to realize that the material was nearly transparent, and left nothing to the imagination. She was hardly more covered than she would have been nude.

"I...I can't wear this. Not out there!" Hermione stammered. If she wore something this revealing who knows what would happen to her. Mercifully, she had not been raped in her captivity. But if she was forced to wear this sad excuse for a dress it was only a matter of time.

"You hardly have a choice, Mudblood. The Dark Lord has specifically given you this to wear, so you will wear it and be grateful. Now come."

Hermione realized that her choices were probably the dress or nothing, and she decided that even a semblance of modesty was better than none at all. She was Hermione Granger, and she was far stronger than what they gave her credit for. She would endure. She _could _endure anything they threw at her. She had already lost everything she could, and she was intimately acquainted with rock bottom. So she would wait. She would wait for her moment, and when that time came she would take back control of her life. Until, then she would play by their rules. She wasn't called the smartest witch of her age for nothing.

So Hermione squared her shoulders and schooled her face in impassivity. Stepping forward she followed Bellatrix Lestrange from what was now to be her shared quarters with Malfoy, into a castle filled with Death Eaters, to serve as slave to the Dark Lord. It was promising to be a splendid day.


End file.
